


Gunmetal

by glass_knife



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Parent Amanda (Detroit: Become Human), Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor is good at driving and its hot, Depressed Hank Anderson, M/M, Mafia AU, Mentions of Cancer, Other, Protective Upgraded Connor | RK900, Top Hank Anderson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-09-27 16:47:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20411041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glass_knife/pseuds/glass_knife
Summary: Hiring a chauffeur for Hank’s mafia was meant to be an easy job. After all, Fowler had managed just fine during his decades as the mob boss's right-hand man. But this time, for the second time in history, he made a fatal error. On accident, Fowler presented Hank Anderson with Connor Stern, an undeniably attractive, superb driver at the lowest point of his life. While Hank is more than ready to accept this turn of events Fowler isn’t so sure.Though it seems neither Hank nor Connor really care about that.





	1. Deal With the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi citizens of Ao3 and welcome to my fic!
> 
> I'm so thankful to [@Anifanatical](https://twitter.com/anifanatical) for organizing the BigBang and letting me meet the amazing [@ostrich-cakes](http://ostrich-cakes.tumblr.com/) and the wonderful [@perpandarium](https://perpandarium.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr as well as all the other beta's who supported me along the way. I'll be posting chapter 2 in the coming days but for now, enjoy the start to this mafia au!
> 
> By the way, [this](https://ostrich-cakes.tumblr.com/post/187299063271/my-art-for-the-hankcon-reverse-big) is the amazing piece of art I was lucky enough to get paired with :)
> 
> For more HankCon goodness, check out the [HCRBB Directory](https://hankconrbb.wordpress.com/)!

_ Click click click _

Well-polished shoes tap against dusty concrete. The silvery metal of guns reflects the blue-yellow lights of the night. An ink-black suit burns a hole in the universe, shoulders hidden by greying hair. A perfectly straight tie, held down by a firm clip.

Blue eyes so deep you could drown.

The click of keys awakens Hank’s apartment from its slumber. The creak of the door tousles it out of its silence. The heavy steps of an older man finally break its hushed spell and the blabbers of that very same aged alcoholic give it life, even though the source of it wasn't a strong one.

This had already become routine. The heavy, burning clump that sat thick in the back of Hank’s throat. This itching for something,  _ anything _ to break the endless silence as he walked into the emptiness of his house. 

And the fucking  _ stillness. _ The feeling of stiff air mingling with the lack of sound has always made the worst things pop into his head, things he had been trying to get over, things he wanted to  _ control _ , things like-

Cole’s name was always hard to keep out of his head.

Such an airy title to such a big personality. A name that slipped off the tongue, taking with it strings of awfully dazzling memories, each one so bright and so damn alluring. Hank was blinded by them, his eyes glazing over at the very thought of his boy even though the years had numbed him.

Falling further down the rabbit hole Hank’s wobbly limbs carried him to his couch, barely able to hold his weight as he collapsed onto the leathery surface of the futon and dozed off to the beeping of his landline. Fowler could piss right off.

Today Hank was alone. 

The merciful lull of unconsciousness took him in minutes after that. 

\--- 

“Hank, get up!” 

“No... I don’t wanna...”

“Hank, we have shit to do-!”

“I said nooo... leave me aloneee...”

“You drunk moron! Carl died to some old Kamski fucker named Christian, now we need a new chauffeur. So how about-”

“NO!”

This, sadly, was also part of the Hank Anderson routine. 

After all particularly “good” nights of drunken disarray the ice-cold feeling in the older man’s temples was only natural, as well as the pounding in his head and the rising of bile in his throat. The sun was only just beginning to glimmer through the floor to ceiling windows of his 9th-floor apartment, somehow still managing to shine directly on Hank’s bearded face. This was only made slightly less overwhelming by the disgustingly unnatural fluorescent lighting of his chic, modern and  _ insanely _ overpriced apartment. The snow-white walls were undecorated and lacking… everything, but personality most of all. 

Despite all this, the worst part of it all was the burning atop Hank’s head from where Fowler was inevitably standing at the edge of the futon, stiff eyes trying to carve a hole in the younger man’s skull with the power of anger and determination alone.

A more casual start to the day for the duo, some might say, and by far not the worst state Fowler has found Hank in throughout their decades of friendship.

“Hank, I am  _ not _ in the mood to baby you with this many losses happening in the gang every month.” The older man going analytical which, in and of itself, was a bad sign, but Hank was a stubborn man. Rolling over he reached out until his hand found a pillow before promptly pressing it into his face as he heard the older man sigh.

“Hank, if you don’t have a driver you’ll be in constant danger.” Jeffrey’s tone shifted to worry, subject matter now about defending Hank’s life and honor. 

Sadly, the man was still foolish enough to believe Anderson had either. 

“Hank-”

“Not right fucking  _ now _ , Fowler,” the mob boss grumbled, slowly but surely getting angrier, “I want to  _ sleep  _ and as your boss-”

Luckily, wise like always, Jeffrey cut him off before his drowsy brain started up that fight again, “They’re all twinks.”

“ _ What _ ?”

“All the candidates for the job are hot young twinks, you moron,” the man sighed, a slight hint of laughter playing at his aged features. “Now come on, get your horny ass up.” The man spat, mirth bubbling within him at the now standing Hank that was scrambling his way up to his bedroom.

By the time Jeffrey was at the door Hank was right behind him. 

\---

The dusty warehouse had become a favourite initiation spot for Hank over the years.

After coming upon it during a huge red ice trade, Hank got attached to its easy to clean floor and remote location. Even though initially he was against it, takeovers feeling too brutal for him back in the day, he soon found himself unable to get the idea of owning a warehouse out of his brain. So as the months went on and his longing for the location worsened, the older man found himself talking to a few of his more tech and murder savvy men about taking it over. Now the place was an iconic Ra9 meeting spot for all Hank related activities, only used on special occasions, more specifically when the man himself had to get involved in something.

Of course, that sadly wasn’t the main reason for Hank’s love of the place. 

At this point, it felt as though every memory from his past was tied to Cole in some way and sadly the warehouse was no exception. When his son was still alive, Hank undoubtedly tried his hardest to keep him a secret from Ra9. Not many knew what he did on a day to day basis, (pros of being a boss who could make underlings tremble with the quirk of a brow) but he was still forced to open up to some of his more directly involved workers- many of whom he knew for a fact he couldn’t trust. 

Fowler found a secret room in the wall a little less than a month after Hank finally gussied up enough to request his help and, as cruel as it may sound, that was where Cole stayed when Hank couldn’t come up with good enough excuses. As much as the older man wanted to find a better way of keeping his son safe, both he and Fowler knew leaving the boy at home with a nanny was a hopeless plan since the apartment was frequently visited and heavily guarded. And though both men tried their best to keep searching, it seemed as though every place but the tiny room had at least one untrustworthy person around it, which made the warehouse the only option.

His son’s hiding place was naturally found at one point, but only after he let it be found. After he had ripped off the glow-in-the-dark stars from the ceiling and the soundproofing mats off the walls. 

He only let it be discovered many years later, when the ghost of Cole’s presence finally left. When Fowler finally made Hank let go.

Now, instead of his boy, there were three young men sitting in a tight ring of chairs, rope hugging their arms. 

This part of initiation was the worst by far. The barbaric methods of old mafia tradition were always beyond Hank, grotesque shows of power from an organization that already constantly threatened to kill anyone who disobeyed it. Though sadly, as much as it hurt to admit, he knew he had to play along, had to be cruel, or else someone else would take his place. Someone more daring and thus likely more murderous than the older man, someone who wouldn’t treat his gang right. But, most importantly of all, someone who would take his place in the job he had had for decades on end.

Someone who would finally rip apart the last remnant of his old status quo.

Despite that he couldn’t help feeling a slight pang of pity at the sight before him, both pathetic yet somehow understandable at once. Within the rope-ring two of the clearly younger, slimmer looking boys chattered like it was mid-winter and they just took a dip in an ice bath. Fear prickled beneath their skin, hands shaking just so, goosebumps clear even from where Hank was perched atop his favorite leather chair. A pitiful sight if he was honest, considering the fact that these boys were supposed to be contestants for his gang; notorious for its no-nonsense policy. Future thugs who he would have to tell where and what to steal, who to kill and why they should keep their mouths shut despite it. Though soon enough Hank noted that maybe hope wasn’t lost for this batch after all; when his eyes finally found their way to the last man in the ring of chairs.

Slightly hidden by the other contestants he stood out, clear as day. Calm and collected from what Hank could tell so far, the man sat perfectly straight yet somehow managed to make it look effortless, not a mark on his suit. Curly brown locks poked out gently from his blindfold, gloved hands at his sides, confident despite his current situation.

After biting back a hum of curiosity, Hank let his eyes prowl up and down the last contestant for a few more seconds, making sure all the while that he was cautious before beginning to speak, slow and smooth. 

“Let them see,” he rumbled, freeing all three candidates from their blindfolds but not the rope that coiled around their waists.

A small group of men stepped closer to the three tied up thugs, the clicks of their shoes ringing out against the tall ceiling and walls. Their hands made quick work of the bonds that sat atop all three men’s eyes as Hank had instructed, revealing their faces as they stepped away one by one, solemnly nodding to their leader. Having to respond to his associates left Hank distracted, but as the older man looked back at the now mostly united contestants, something quite unfortunate became perfectly clear.

The curly-haired man was  _ undeniably _ attractive.

The flowy, loosely coily dark chocolate locks atop his forehead, accompanied by a razor-sharp jawline framing his face, a gorgeous, summer kissed, freckled nose, and a pair of perfectly pink kissable lips; he stood out amid scarred up faces and black, choppy hair. At the moment his eyes weren’t trained on Hank, rather focused on the guard that had taken off his blindfold moments prior. Still, from where the older man sat, he could see the young man had luminous cinnamon-colored irises that practically glowed in the blaring warehouse light. At the moment they were sharp, dangerous, though clearly only for show, since the true nature of the pretty-boy's face spoke of softness and strength as well as a pain that Hank knew well though somehow couldn’t describe. All he knew was that the younger man had lost at some point in his few years on this earth, impossible to spot for most, but easy to see for Hank with the years of experience in “people reading” on his belt and the beginnings of wrinkles lining the young brunette’s features as well as the maturity within those glowing hazelnut eyes. 

Hank only realized he had been staring when he felt the gentle squeeze of Fowler’s fingers atop his shoulder, unnoticeable to anyone but the mob boss, a technique the right-hand man used only for the most dire of situations. Now though as the seconds ticked on, more and more eyes looked towards Hank, yet his heart just kept beating, and beating, and beating.

_ Badum, badum. Badum, badum _ . 

“I’ve made my choice.” 

  
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, a quick selection, maybe even one of his quickest, but still in the range of normal…  _ right? _

“Who?” A guard asked softly, as the onlookers stared at both Hank and the three tied up men, anticipating the older man’s answer.

“Him.” 

Hank’s voice boomed, broad with false confidence as his finger lined up with the curly-haired angel’s slim frame, heart still beating out of his chest. 

Fowler’s grip tightened on his shoulder.

\----

As soon as the blindfold was off, Connor was on the lookout for his future boss. Already 100% sure he was getting the job. Both used to the dynamics of gangs and aware that the two buffoons that sat next to him as his “competition” were both too young, too dull and way too frightful for this kind of career he sat comfortably in the wooden chair he was tied to. So when the blindfold finally came off instead of looking fake worried or pretending to be a sociopath, he simply idly fiddled his thumbs and darted from eye to eye in search of the man he would have to please and obey.

That was until a booming voice tore through the darkness.

As ashamed as he is to admit it, the deep rumbling tone of whoever spoke made a tight coil of excitement curl in the young chauffeur's stomach (god he was a hopeless bottom). But as he was unable to find the man it belonged to, the sensation cooled, luckily not causing any blushing or squirming in its wake. The second time was a little worse but still bearable. The third time he found the eyes, the voice, and the boss all at once. In all honesty, he nearly lost his breath.

Deep in the darkness of the warehouse sat a silver-haired man atop a plush looking leather chair. Hair as white as snow grew in the gaps of darker locks, somewhat unkempt but somehow still suave as it ran down to meet the shoulders of his broad, looming silhouette. His sharp jaw was also somewhat covered by a lush white puff of beard, it too looking like it needed a light trim, but in the best way possible. Though somehow despite all that, the most notable feature the older man possessed were his eyes. Piercing blue, two daggers of color gazed back at Connor, half shut, icy and unyielding as they stared him down, reading him as if he was an open book. The younger man fought to hold back a shudder of what he only hoped was fear.

But that would show weakness- so instead the younger man simply swallowed, steeling himself, and gazed back at the salt and pepper haired man with equal intensity. In return he watched as the smirk that already sat atop his boss’s face broadened, seemingly accidentally, before he startled and looked away once more, turning quite suddenly to his assistant (Fowler, Connor had heard his name once or twice in the dingy alleys of Detroit getting him involved in this mess in the first place) only to, after a few seconds of quiet deliberation, turn right back around to speak.

“It’s time for initiation,” he boomed, stiff faced once more. “Take the others back.”

Without a second thought, a group of guards swarmed the trifecta of chairs. Their hands worked fast once more, making easy work of the sailor’s knot that had encased Connor for what felt like hours as the two other scrawny men began to squirm and plead for a second chance. It only took a minute or so to rid the room of chairs and guards.

Now the once-bustling space was empty, apart from Connor and the two older men eerily staring at him from across the warehouse floor. Despite it all, the young brunette made sure he stood tall under their crushing gazes.

“Hurry up here recruit, we don’t have all day,” the cold voice of Fowler demanded, sharp to the ears, new, strict and somehow many times more threatening than the one of his new boss.  _ So that’s what all the fuss was about. _

“Yes sir.” The words, and his pride, were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

The first step was the most menacing of all. The click of Connor’s well-groomed shoes rang like a church house bell against the tall warehouse ceiling before racing down the walls. Picking up a bit of speed, heavy air clearly growing rigid with each silent second, Connor all but dashed towards the men until his eyes caught glimpse of a bright sparkle in the corner of his eye, metal under his boss’s coat. The knife stopped Connor dead in his tracks, mouth agape, words caught in his throat, street smarts finally helping him out just a little. 

At that, the silver-haired man chuckled, not quite laughing  _ at _ Connor yet clearly not laughing with him, already a step ahead.

“ _ Wow _ kid, you sure do have a good eye.” Sarcasm drenched every syllable of his words, playful as it marked the return of that glint in the older man’s eye.

Connor would have laughed at that in any other situation but this one. Instead, he watched the man pull the shiny metal blade further from his coat to reveal its gorgeously ornate handle before he began speaking once more, smile sharp in the overpowering fluorescent light.“Though that’s not really necessary for the job you’re trying for, is it? Either way, it’s not here to hurt you any more than it’s here to hurt me. Simply Ra9 tradition, you know?” 

Connor didn’t know. The older man was still reading him like an open book. 

“Just cut your trigger finger and hand over the blade to me, alright?” 

The man was being too kind. Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw Fowler’s hand tighten on the mob boss’s shoulder, gesture gone just as quickly as it appeared, a tiny game of chess unfolding before his eyes, one that he was clearly not meant to see.

Cut, wipe, done.

A little cautious, though most certainly back on his feet, Connor looked up at his boss with an air of challenge that the other man didn’t miss, eyes stuck on the bead of crimson that was pooling atop the brunette’s porcelain skin. Connor, still holding the knife by the blade, gently shook the handle in offering. Fowler reached for it before Hank grabbed it from his grip.  _ Interesting. _

“Though before we get on with that, I suppose you deserve an introduction. Hank Henry Anderson, but it’s still boss to you for now.” 

Suddenly, swiftly  _ Hank _ took the blade with lightning-fast efficiency before nicking his finger with practiced finesse. The name fit well, yet it still tasted new on his tongue.  _ He wanted to say it out loud _ .

“And you are?”

“Connor Stern.”

That hint of a smile returned for long enough for only the most keen-eyed to see. Connor was proud to note it. _ _

“Well, alright then, Connor. You need to know what you’re getting into before you commit, so listen real close.” Hank’s voice was back to a rumble, no power play here anymore, the boss held all the cards now and he knew it. All Connor could do was watch the older man play him like a puppet on strings. Somehow, in the moment, he didn’t even mind.

“In Ra9 we have one deal and one rule.” The older man’s voice wrapped around Connor like a serpent coiling around its prey, silky. “The rule is simple enough, if you’re not so dense as to disobey it.” Warm and lilting his tone wrapped around the younger man, again and again, soft, subtle.

“Obedience and absolute loyalty to the gang's all I and Fowler ask for. Betray that rule, and you’ll lose everything you have.” Sharper now, yet only slightly so, his voice was tightening, eating up the remaining space through which Connor could escape, the room around the two of them seemingly growing smaller and smaller until everything but Hank Anderson’s eyes disappeared. 

“So, Connor,” he said smoothly. “Do you want to be part of Ra9, loyal to it forever and always, in return for the fellowship of your Ra9 brothers and sisters?” Snakelike, his eyes continued their vicious dig through his soul, but seconds later something else, something bright red came into view. 

“A promise of blood is all it takes.” 

A beat of silence took over the room as Hank’s grin returned. Connor’s finger pressed against Hank’s the second the older man’s words finally hit his ears.

He was now part of Ra9.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully you guys are looking forward to the updates that I plan to post in the coming days cause the story of Hank and Connor is just getting started :)
> 
> Remember, comments are a writers LIFELINE so tell me about how you're liking things so far and I promise to write a long, loving response


	2. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi to all the readers that are still experiencing this blessed mess of a fic!   
Since I like to keep my promises here is chapter 2!!!
> 
> For those who like my premise and are still into the action chapter 3 will be out by Wednesday and no later, and after that the schedule of Sunday to Wednesday should continue smoothly until the end!
> 
> I hope that you enjoy this chapter!

_ Tic-Tic-Tic-Tic-Tic-Tic _

Turnpike, left, gas and stop by McGrav avenue then right. 

_ Tic-Tic-Tic-Tic-Tic-Tic _

Stoplight stoplight stoplight.

The clicking clicking clicking of the turn signal was too slow, not in beat, not in rhythm with the clawing, scrambling, hammering washing machine of his heart. Connor’s insides, no, his whole _chest _had been beating as if this was _Alien_ and there was a monster inside him trying to erupt out to the world throughout the entire drive. The ruthless beat ripped at his ribs as he made his way… home, yet he continued to drive. The hospital, or more aptly the _“Detroit Receiving Hotel”_, was the place both he and his brother Nines were forced to reside in for the past seven months of their lives. The bills began to catch up to them and apartments became too expensive, so they found the baren, barely working hospital and called it home without another thought. The chemo was cheap and the doctors lousy but it was all Connor could afford, for now. Nines was always adamant that this was fine though both knew that was a lie. 

Still, though the rage that always bubbled within Connor as the hospital came into view was strong, it seemed that today his thoughts were going to be the stars of the show.

_ What an impression to make on the first day _ . The musing came about on its own, but its brutal realism abruptly made Connor feel heavy with worry about making it out alive in the following months. The weight of reckless decisions was always heavy, but this time it felt gargantuan and for good reason.  _ Who the fuck joins the mafia on a whim? _ Not only that but to make such an impression on his boss, to challenge him? To be so daring right in front of his face - and worst of all - make such an impression  _ of _ himself in return. 

He was fucked, he realized swiftly, the thought alone stinging like a slap to the face. 

Deeply, royally fucked. 

Despite this, he still wanted to talk it out with Nines.

Hands tight on the wheel, Connor white-knuckled his way into a reserved patient spot in one smooth motion and clambered out of the car, long legs making him stumble like always. He was a well-practiced ballerina inside that Honda, fluid with his twists and turns alike, confident, smooth, and comfortable as if he was one with the vehicle in the best way possible. Only god knows how he had managed to keep up his graces for that long while in front of his boss -  _ Hank -  _ or why had been able to smile and give out his phone number while saying easy “thank you”s and “see you later”s. Now he was tired, now he was Connor, now he was stumbling his way towards the hospital only to find his brother in the hallway.

“My room,  _ now _ .” He spat, his brashness mocking the fact that he was the younger one of the duo. 

“Nines I-”

“ **I said now!** ”

And wasn’t today just getting better and better?

\---

“Evening boss! You’ll be calling tomorrow right?”

“Bye kid, I’ll-”

“Goodnight recruit, your boss will call whenever he pleases.”

With clenched fists, Hank watched as Connor’s slim form disappeared behind the warehouse door before hearing the rev of an engine and the squeal of tires. Neither he nor Fowler moved; waiting, waiting and waiting for the brunette to disappear for good before starting to talk about what had just occurred. Hank (already a tad frayed at the edges) opened his mouth to speak, but Fowler cut in before any words could form.

“This isn’t a game Hank, you know that right?” Jeffery all but yelled, the air around him bubbing, hot with his rage. “That boy, what you just played with that boy, shit if  _ anyone _ else was around you right then, you’d be dead in an alley by next weekend, him buried with you!” This was the start of a rant, one Hank admittedly wasn’t ready for though he was still about to give it his best shot.

“Jeffrey, you brought me to a bunch of pretty little young twinks and expected me to not get tongue-tied? You know that after Julie-” he regretted saying the name as soon as it was out of his mouth. The brimstone in Fowler's eyes ate the title up like firewood.

“Oh don’t even get me started on her, would you? Same fuckin’ story if you ask me. You always have a knack for banging your chauffeurs and getting attached so I should have known that this wasn’t a good idea!” 

Though the walk through memory lane was unpleasant, Hank bore his way through it, trying his best to come up with a good retort meanwhile. Sadly, he failed. “Jeffrey calm down would ya? Shouldn’t have brought me hot guys then, so fucking settle down-” 

“No. I won’t settle down! While yes I admit it was a  _ little _ stupid of me to think you’d have any other kind of reaction, I thought I made sure they were all dumb.” The man roared, encroaching rapidly on Hank’s personal space before suddenly softening “I wanted to do something nice for you, eye candy and nothing more. Maybe you’d have a fun old fuckfest in the back of one of your cars but I wanted to find a dumb blonde, someone who wouldn’t have the guts or more importantly the brains to tell.” lilted into a false sense of security Hank softened as well, only to be hit by Fowler’s next words like a tidal wave. “But then that boy came around and you fucking saw what kind of wits he had about him! Noticing the blade and playing you like a fiddle already.”

Suddenly red and trying not to cough into his hand, Hank managed a kindergarten level retort, sputtering through a “He did not.” leaving Fowler to smirk at his victory before continuing.

“He sure did! Do you think he put on that whole show with the knife for no reason, holding it like that and giving it a fucking playful shake with that look his eye.” Fowler repeated the motion with a much stiffer hand, playing up the teasing elements in his version of Connor’s flourish before all but poking a hole in Hank’s chest with the force of his finger, “Bedroom eyes I tell you,” he punctuated his point with another agonizing poke, “He had you figured out in a matter of minutes-”

“Or he just fucking found me hot.” Hank finally got the balls to cut in, trying now to stand tall despite his body's best efforts to turn him into a blushing, awkward mess. For a split second the mob boss realised how few arguments he had won while with Fowler, but the thought got blown out of his mind by his will to make this one one of his winning few. He’d get back to it later.

For the moment Jeffrey looked at Hank as rose he to his full height, body and mind both suddenly remembering how much shorter Fowler really was. And then, just for a moment, Jeffrey stared straight into Hank’s eyes, calculating instead of dismissive, sparking hope high in the younger man’s heart before looking away again, ignorant once more. 

“Hank, it doesn’t matter if it’s mutual, this isn’t happening again!” the older man basically coed, making Hank’s fingers twist into fists behind his back “The gang needs you and neither I nor you can take another… incident. Both of us will never forget the pain of loss, especially you. Not after last time, not after C-”

A hand that was distinctly not Fowler’s was on his face before he could finish the forbidden name.

“ _ Fowler. _ ” Hank roared, crossing the space between them in a flash, flush burned away like flambeed wine, rough-sandpaper voice grating the air around him as it rumbled from the back of his throat. Fowler folded quite quickly after that, not quite admitting defeat but taking the conversational equivalent of a step back, moving to slower, more thought out sentences.

“Yes, yes you’re right but you know what I mean.” The chocolate skinned man said with a sigh, eyes going even more delicate, earnest. “I just don’t want you dead, not after the hell and high water we’ve been through buddy. We’ve lived through so much together, built Ra9 from the ground up, and this sure as hell isn’t how I want it all to end.” Fowler continued, a delicate smile stretching across his wrinkled skin as he slowly stretched out his hands, offering of a hug.

_ What a fucking fake. _

For most men, this kind of approach would have been more than sufficient, soft enough that some may have even had to stifle a tear. Sadly (or gladly, depending on how you look at it) twenty years never do go unnoticed, especially at this level of close proximity. Even though few people would have, Hank saw the little twitch in the older man’s brow and that’s all it took for him to realize that this was all a part of his candy coating bullshit. And things turned even worse when Hank heard the way Fowler delivered the word _bud,_ practically choking on it_._ _What a fucking low blow,_ Hank thought with a mental smile, _he thinks he’s still got it but so do I. _And as soon as the thought crossed his mind, Hank Anderson made a decision. 

A foolish decision by the average joe’s standard, one that a mob boss like himself probably wasn’t allowed to make but still, a decision that he knew he wanted nonetheless. It had been four years since the last time Hank played reckless games within the spider web of life and death that he always weaved and by now he could only dream of feeling something but the rawness in his chest that only booze seemed to calm. 

And that’s where Connor came in.

Hank never did believe in soulmates and this situation wasn’t one that was proving that belief to be unrealistic, but he did believe in compatibility. Put in layman's terms the young chauffeur had a charm about him that nobody including Hank could deny, a charm that not only did the older man crave, no it was a charm that Hank knew he needed. After so many years of nothing but agony sandwiched between blows of misery and grief (as well as the ever present numbness) it had been a while since Hank genuinely let out a chuckle or felt a grin split across his face. So Hank dug a pit, deep into his heart in which he showed the tiny ember of heat Connor left in him only to hide it away deep inside, behind his frozen wall of a heart and his stone faced disguises. Fowler seemed to fall for it when he finally smiled, eyes meeting those of his best and oldest friend as he stood up and stepped into the other man’s arms.

“Alright then Fowler, I’ll keep cool” Hank said, head in the nook of his most trusted ally’s shoulder, lying through his teeth as he held him close to his heart.

At that, the older man sighed, relieved. “You better, or I’ll have to kill you myself.”

Both men knew that that was only partly a joke.

\---

Nines’s arm dug into Connor’s wrist as he dragged him through the begrudgingly bare hospital corridors, slamming door after door open, forcing his older brother to deal with the swinging pendulums as well as he could. In all honesty, this was to be expected, despite Connor having slightly higher expectations of his brother. Connor had  _ hoped  _ that Nines _ finally _ understood his decision and was mature enough to let go, though it seemed like that just wasn’t the case. That maybe it would never truly be.

Finally seeing the door to room 304, Connor felt the tight grip of his raven-haired brother let him go, the younger man toppling onto the bed, exhaustion clearly setting in even though Nines pretended it wasn’t there in the first place. Still, despite his horizontal position and ghost-pale face, a bright fire of ferocity shone in his eyes like a candle lighting the night, pale blue irises consumed by it’s delicate yet ravenous flame, ready for the fight that was clearly about to take place. Connor watched, still in the doorway as Nines rustled around on the crinkly bed sheets of his cot, finally getting semi-comfortable in a half-sitting position. A rickety sigh escaped from his lips as he began to speak, voice ragged with exhaustion from dragging Connor around.

“You did it didn’t you?” Slow and deadly, like he always was, Nines genuinely knew how to be threatening, no matter what his age or health situation said, though over the years Connor learned to stand his ground as well.

“ _ Yep. _ ” The response always had to be just as aggressive. A challenge, a request to duel things out, to butt heads, to see whos cracked first.

There was always a silence in that moment, a tiny debate as the gears shifted (from Connor’s brotherly point of view, rather visibly) within Nines’s brain as he shook things over. And then, (like usual) just as Connor thought he had won, or at least defused the situation enough to get back to it later, an angry mumble of protest broke the silence.

And thus the fencing match began.

Starting off on the defense, Nines commenced slowly, still a tad out of breath, though not any less sinister. “Didn’t we talk about it, Con? Didn’t you talk about it with  _ me _ ? Why not ask some rando next time because as your brother, I think I should have more of a say in this!”

A well worded, truthful response, one that was still quite emotionally charged yet somehow, quite logical all the same. _ He must have been sitting on that for a while, the fucker.  _ A beat of pause took the air at that, Connor mulling over each word in his mind, treading carefully as he made up his answer.

“Yeah, we did talk about this and I did want to take your opinion into consideration, but this is my life so the final decision is up to me and you know it. This is something I  _ have _ to take into my own hands and-”

Nines decided it was his turn to strike, voice taught as a whip as he slashed his way through Connor’s words “You know it’s dangerous!” 

_ Low blow  _ the older man thought before delivering one himself. “And you know that without treatment-” 

“Not the point,” Nines all but yelled, suddenly furious despite that weak jab “This is a family deal, this is bigger than you this is bigger than me, this is-”

His jaw suddenly stopped moving when Connor put on  _ the face.  _ Nines prepared for the onslaught as the young chauffeur took a deep breath and held it for a moment. The two brothers waited for the start of the typhoon, mentally counting down.

Three 

  
Two

  
One

Connor began speaking with no intention to stop ‘til he won.

“Not the point?! Chemo is  _ exactly _ the point! We need money for this Nines, and that’s okay. The risk of my death in what I just got into is so much lower than the risk of yours if I don’t continue to provide. If we don’t keep you on meds, if you keep trying to get back out there without proper rehabilitation. If we don’t get that surgery-”

“Connor I’m fine-”

“And either way I am your older brother, your official, legal caretaker and your unofficial one too! So even though I care about what you have to say, in reality you don’t  _ actually _ have a say in this matter either way because-”

“Connor I’m good-” Nines yelled as loud as he could, breathing getting quicker with each moment the two of them argued. His eyes glued shut for a second a smile twisting the corner of his lips at the thought of victory before they fluttered open once more only to find Connor, fists clenched and face beat red, entire body looking like he was about to set not only himself but the entire room aflame. A beat passed and the older brother took a deep breath, steadying his lungs before letting the roar rip through his chest.

“You are  **NOT** !”

The sentence bounced around the room again and again, drywall looking as if it was about to crack under the pressure of the fury Connor had just let loose. Nines’s right ear began to ring. The older brother stood tall with an exhausted expression, the buzzing of his voice continuing to bring the air around the Stern family into a tremor. About thirty seconds later silence finally took hold of the space again but Connor wasn’t done.

“Can’t I just tell you about my first day? As if it was a normal job?”

A final jab, his voice now frayed at the edges from his outburst, raw to the ears. No longer fuming all that was left behind in Connor’s eyes was a plea, one that Nines simply couldn’t ignore, they  _ were _ brothers after all. And as second after second passed in the piercing silence of room 305 both brothers knew this time the doe eyed brunette was victorious. At that, Nines looked up, gaze now still, soft, unsure, but aware he wouldn’t be able to change Connor’s mind -- not anymore. He let go as best as he could, breathed, in and out, and looked up to meet his older brothers gaze, a pained smile across his lips.

“Yeah Con, tell me about it,” he said softly, fighting to keep up the smile, “I’d love to know.” Earnest like always, the same old brother Connor had known from the age of four.

“Well sit real comfy then,” Connor retorted, now grinning, “because it all honestly went pretty bad.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo meeting Nines is always a doozy, especially when he's mad.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this update and that it was long enough to be worth the short wait!  
Tell me about your thoughts in the comments cause we writers always appreciate those :)


	3. Crime Doesn't Wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi y'all!
> 
> Had a super tough week so don't be too harsh on me with this chapter.  
Hopefully it's still enjoyable though!

The call came at 4 am sharp the next day.

Sneaking out took a little finesse but Connor knew he had a lot of room for error (raising a little brother does tend to teach you what wakes him). Tiptoeing out the door took mere minutes and scrambling with putting on a suit in a semi-public hospital washroom took even less time which meant that Connor was out the door in what he believed was a reasonable manner.

That was until he showed up. 

The ruffled, angry silhouette of a bloodied Fowler came into view first, quickly followed by Hank. He looked much harsher than yesterday. 

Something had shifted, that was quite easy to tell, but what it was still seemed quite unclear. Had a deal gone bad or did the two men simply change their opinions on him after further deliberation? It seemed to be quite an unreasonable idea at first, but as Connor’s car crept ever closer, the faces of the duo coming clearly into view, he began to give it a second thought. Fowler’s beedy eyes met his own as soon as the man spotted him before locking on with an unhinged gaze, an apocalypse going within those frigid hickory eyeballs. Somehow Connor was already sure he was in some way the cause. Sadly though, before the chauffeur could finish his train of thought, a sharp thud came from the back door, quickly followed by a long scraping sound. Returning his eyes to the spot Fowler once stood he found it empty, a now semi angry Hank the only thing remaining. Without letting himself overthink things further Connor forced himself to turn around.

All Connor noted was the shadowy silhouette that slinked beside his back door before a blade came into view, blood and car paint stark on the iron of the knife. A full cackle struck through the evening air like lightning before another scream of metal on metal erupted from the back door. Connor couldn’t help the goose bumps that ran up his arm, so instead of looking back, instead of gazing into the pit of death that Fowler’s eyes had somehow become he sat, back ramrod straight, and waited for instructions. On accident his eyes landed on Hank’s. He wasn’t looking quite as stiff anymore.

“Roll down the window you worm brained prick!” Fowler’s fist slammed into his side door, somehow already beside him, “Crime doesn’t wait maggot and if you do that again the car won’t be the only thing left with a stab wound, _got it_?”

“Yes sir-”

“Fowler,” Hank boomed suddenly, eyes growing more dangerous for reasons unknown, leaving Fowler looking a tad taken aback before he promptly slipped back into his rage.

“Oh don’t you dare Hank! This prick came here 20 minutes after a call, if anyone saw what I looked like and called the cops that’d be your head and mine!”

Hank’s seemingly newfound ire continued to coil ever tighter regardless of his right hand man’s fury, “Fowler he’s just a newbie, we never told him anything-”

“Well then he should have fucking asked-”

“He did and you cut him off!”

The words cracked like a taut whip through the air, leaving a look of surprise on both Hank’s and Fowler’s faces before the duo slipped back into his stone faced facades. For a moment Connor even felt as though he could see that the eldest of the two begin cracking under the pressure, the weight of those endless blue eyes eating him whole.

Still, Fowler never quite admitted defeat. Instead he turned, thunder under his heel and gave Connor a final glare before stomping his way to the back of the young chauffeur's Honda and abruptly getting inside, motioning for Hank to follow. For some reason the mob boss took things slower, walking around the front of the car and making a show of “accidentally” passing by the side of the vehicle Fowler tore through. Though the older man tried to hide it, it was obvious that a storm was brewing behind his sharp face, emotions passing over Hank’s eyes at lightning speed. In truth, that was a feature Connor noticed from the very moment he first saw the older man (both today and that very day in the warehouse when their eyes first met) though usually nothing was clear enough to decipher. Today though it seemed like the mob boss slipped up, because when Connor looked at him through the glass of his side door window he saw a feeling he could recognize clear as day, watching as the tail end of sorrow ran across Hank’s eyes before promptly disappearing once more. A smile fought its way to Connor’s lips. The younger man promptly forced it down. 

After that the trip was more or less normal. The clattering of nails on the plastic of one of the doors filled the air accompanied by the light hum of the Honda’s engine. Connor began to adjust his rearview at an intersection only to be met with a cerulian blizzard. He nearly jumped in his seat, though when he looked back he was disappointed to find that Hank’s eyes were gone just as quickly as they appeared. Soon enough the brunette realised that maybe not all hope was lost.

After all, he did still feel the occasional dig of them on his right shoulder.

That same smile began to creep up again as the goosebumps tried to return, though this time for other reasons.

** _…_ **

Throughout the drive not much was said. The hum of the car and the occasional bump from dinky Detroit concrete was about all that remained in the cold air. Fowler would rumble something to Hank and the man would respond in hushed tones. Sometimes the right hand man let out a grumble, most of them coming after the beeping of his phone. Connor still sat ramrod straight and kept his eyes mostly on the road, giving the backseat an occasional glance or two just to make sure Fowler didn’t pull out his knife. Hank’s rumbling voice broke the silence when Connor’s eyes lingered a second too long.

“You know you’re allowed to ask questions, right Stern?” 

“Yes boss but-” Connor began to stammer seeing how he was no longer barricaded by his car doors from Fowler before Hank cut in, giving the right hand man a slightly too aggressive pat on the back followed by an airy chuckle.

“I promise Fowler won’t threaten you if you keep up with the code, hopefully after this you understand being late isn’t acceptable.”

“Yes boss.”

“Well alright then, shoot.”

Connor couldn’t help but gulp down. In truth the younger man didn’t have any “appropriate” questions in mind but it was clear that now he had to come up with something or have to deal with attracting the suspicion of the two highest ranking members of the entire gang. So as his mind scrambled to come up with something cohesive Connor stalled for time, giving one more hesitant glance to Fowler in the rearview only to find him being hugged at an odd angle by his boss. At that Connor manned up and finally spoke. 

“What did you two do in that house?”

The heaviness of tense air returned to the car as soon as the question toppled from Connor’s lips. He really wanted to take it back. A bubble of laughter came from the backseat, clearly belonging to Fowler as a spark of murder began twinkling in his eye.

“Killed a man, fed him to the pigs. It’s sad that I still have to get my hands dirty but it’s an old tradition, almost Ra9 code at this point.” the glint of a smile crickled the corner of his aged face, “Might be one of our lightest ones considering what the fucker did, killed a chauffeur of ours and ran away to Kamski.”

Now he was staring Connor dead in the eye.

“Betrayals are never taken lightly here but if someone leaves soon after joining they always get forgiven, it’s only fair to let people realize that the business isn’t for them is it not?”

Rhetorical question. Easy bait. Connor didn’t bite down. Instead he turned on his turn signal and let the ticking sound of it fill the car as he glided into a shortcut to what he assumed was Hank’s home. Looking over at the chocolate skinned man was a mistake because all Connor saw was the “I’m watching you” symbol and that deadly, toothy smile.

\---

The next call was at 5.

This time Connor barely did anything other than put on his suit (that is if popping a mint in your mouth counts as “something”) before he sped off to the place he was called.

Hank and Fowler, together again, this time neither of them covered in viscous red-brown. Same thing once more. Low, threatening, maddening comments from Fowler with rare cut ins from the mob boss. Ignoring flips of silver hair followed by the burning of eyes on his shoulder and hair, sometimes even his face.

A rhetorical question about leaving, about how easy it would be to be free once more if he left this very second.

The memory of Nines in the hospital and the need for a paycheck. 

Staying silent as Fowler cackles, voice sometimes cracking as if rarely used this way.

_ Ring ring ring _ 4:30.

Hank, Fowler.

Different building, clothes, this time with pistols and a long paper list.

Today Hank smiled more, talked more. Fowler jabbed more, Hank still looked away. A pattern? Where was the pattern? The first week flew by in a blaze of scrambling with writing down similarities in behaviour and only coming back home after Nines was asleep only to leave before he woke up (writing him kind notes as he slept).

Things became scarier with each moment, each day.

Even though there were many signs pointing against it, what if Fowler was actually like this by default? What if the crackle that worsened in his voice didn’t mean this tone was rare for him, what if the odd, movie like methods weren’t any facade. What if this was just the day to day for the man, especially for people he didn’t like?

And what if his boss was the same. Did Hank always turn a blind eye until things got clearly out of hand. Was the man always a puppet on strings for Fowler to play with. Was he always this blind to his right hand man’s manipulation? 

So why look at Connor at all, and dually so with that weird gleam in his eye. 

So eight car scratches (four new ones coming about after that first blood curdling private drive) and sixteen calls later Connor was still nowhere.

That was until he got called the day before to prepare.

\---

Fowler was totally cramping his style.

The twenty years were a two way street. He must have seen that glint in Hank’s eye in the warehouse, or maybe he spotted him that time he stared at Connor too long in the car or let out a snicker when he normally wouldn’t have when the man told him about driving the other thugs of the gang.

Still it was miserable for the mob boss to watch the once shiny eyes of the gentle faced, coily haired chaffeur grow duller and more confused with each day, trying his best (clearly to no avail) to correlate the fact that Fowler’s aggressive behaviour had almost nothing to do with himself. Hank knew the two of them needed some time alone, but time that wouldn’t be suspicious to anyone else.

So in six short days Hank concocted a plan.

The deal with Kamski had been in the works for months now and as luck would have it Fowler wasn’t involved in the plan. Despite recent hostile relations with the fellow gang, a few spokesmen was all it took to broker a peace treaty until the deal was done. It was clear to both men that no matter how many times Jeffrey gently propositioned his presence in the meeting over lunch or while waking Hank up from another drunken night that his part in the deal wasn’t changing and though both men knew what the other was doing and why, neither admitted their victories and losses aloud.

So Hank called around and told Connor to prepare, waved the thoughts of… incidents… from his mind before calling in to ask if the younger man was ready to go.

He was, Hank wasn’t really surprised.

After all, “crime doesn’t wait”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heatin' up
> 
> New chapter on Sunday (hopefully)


End file.
